


Into the Dark

by Ee_vvaa



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Some Humor, it end on a good note i swear, mention of depression, papa thatcher to the rescue, sad boi hour, sledge needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 23:23:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15982688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ee_vvaa/pseuds/Ee_vvaa
Summary: When people constantly have high expectations of you and expect you to be perfect, you are bound to eventually break under all that pressure and that’s exactly what happens to Sledge – he breaks. But not to worry, Thatcher will work his magic to cheer him up.





	Into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Warning! This fic may hit home to some, if not most people. It does contain/slight mention of depression.
> 
> Huge thanks to [Ki_ru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru) , [kiki_92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiki_92/pseuds/kiki_92) , [Grain_Crain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grain_Crain/pseuds/Grain_Crain) , [DatGirlSuzie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DatGirlSuzie) for beta-reading for me!

Sledge sat leaning against the wall, feeling its cold hands seeping into his clothes and pricking at his back for attention or to simply just pull him further into the freezing dark abyss of misery. His mind a buzzing blank, numbing even. His grey eyes red and still wet from all the tears he had shed, trails of it still remaining on his cheeks as clear indication of its existence after falling to the wooden floor. The room was dark and strangely chilly, as if a winter spirit was present and making the room its new home, covering it in a sheet of ice and snow. The bed, surprisingly, was still neatly kept and untouched since morning. It called out to the Scotsman to climb in and let it warm him up, to lull him to sleep but he ignored its calls. Grey coloured eyes shifted over to the window, the beautiful full moon on full display in the night sky as it was accompanied by little sparkling stars. Tree branches were just peeping at the edges of the window, sometimes – with the help of the wind – they tapped against the dirty glass as if beckoning for him to come outside and just sit on them, gazing at the nightly scenery of Hereford base.

Sledge sniffled and wiped away the tears, pulling his legs up against his chest and resting his arms and head on top of his knees. The little voices began whispering to him in his head, they laughed and mocked him but what was most cruel was that they'd taken on the sound of his friends and teammates. Fingers pointed at him as they laughed; giggling at how weak of a person he was to allow such little things to get to him. A whimper before he broke apart, the tears he kept in for so long falling from his eyes like heavy rain, unstopping. The Scotsman could feel his face heating up as his body shook with each sob that was choked out, his nose runny and rapidly clogging up. He was exhausted, extremely exhausted, and not just physically. 

The poor Scotsman had absolutely no idea how much longer he could keep this façade up anymore, this happy and _‘everything is okay’_ act. He'd been wearing this mask for so long that it felt like it had become a part of him; a part of his own flesh and blood. How much longer did he have to continue wearing this veneer? Or why did he even continue to wear it, knowing full well that all it was doing was hurting him? The Scotsman had asked himself this question almost every night and day, and never had he been able to come up with an answer – or better yet, he just didn’t know. He just couldn’t say why he wore it. However, one thing that he was sure of was that he didn’t want to rope anyone else into this dark and messy hole that he had unknowingly climbed in. He didn’t want to have others shouldering his pain or to drag them down with him.

So many questions ran through his head and he wasn’t even sure what had caused them to pop up. However, they felt like scorching hot, sharp knives slicing through his skin and flesh, marking him with new scars each day, varying in depth – some being shallow, stinging, others deep slashes which drew blood and cause crimson liquid to ooze out. Exactly how much longer did he have to endure the pain? The agony which constantly has been eating him alive from within? He had absolutely no fucking idea how to stop it. No matter how much he tried to, it just would not stop and even if it did, it would always return hungrier than ever. It stubbornly refused to give him the peace that he had been craving for months… no, years. He has waited for so, _oh so long_ , for freedom, for relief from his inner demons. 

The more he kept thinking, the more his mind and body went numb. Time ticked by without him noticing, his eyes burning from the tears and his nose clogged even more from all the snuffling and snot gathered there. The tissue box sat on the nightstand next to his bed but Sledge had no energy to even stand up to take one to wipe it all away, instead he shifted his posture to one less numbing for his bottom and painful to his back – he’d chosen a crossed leg position. A shaky breath left his lips as his arms laid in his lap, thumbnails pressing against his skin and creating crescent moon dents – an attempt to use pain as a distraction from his thoughts. It didn’t work. _‘Why are you like this? Why are you trying? What good would you do? Stop faking that smile already; it’s not going to work. You can’t get rid of us. Nothing will. So try all you want but it’s not going to work. You’re forever alone and nothing will ever change that. A failure and a disappointment to everyone.’_ The voices whispered coldly in his head, giggling darkly.

“Go away. Please, just stop it,” Sledge thought to himself while clasping his hands over his ears in an effort to block them out. He clenched his teeth, eyebrows scrunched up as he continued to try and pay no heed to the words. A knock at the door stopped everything. The voices ceased their jabs at the Scotsman, the coldness that once filled the room dissipated, and the buzzing and numbness he had been feeling all night vanished. The person on the other side of the door knocked once more. 

“Seamus, you still up?,” a voice asked.

“Err… Y-yeah, I’m up,” Sledge responded with a stutter for which he cursed himself. “Give me a minute.” He quickly wiped away the tears with the back of his hands and stumbled while standing up due to his leg falling asleep on him. He limped towards the door, already feeling the pins and needles tingling along his leg, and opened the wooden door to reveal Thatcher on the other side. The older man diverted his attention away from the floor to set his gaze on his comrade, an eyebrow raised. 

“Are you alright, lad?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What do you need, old man?,” he quickly answered with a joke at the end, hoping it would ease the older man’s worries. Thatcher made no indication whether he was suspicious or not.

“Well, I was going to ask if I could borrow one of your extra pillows. James stole mine and is currently slobbering all over it,” Thatcher explained, arms folded over his chest, expressing his distaste with this little predicament. After all, it was his favourite pillow being drenched in someone else's saliva and not his own for once – not that he drooled or anything, just saying. Sledge let out a chuckle and was about to turn around to grab one yet Thatcher swiftly added: “But I’m calling bullshit. I know that you’re not ‘fine’, Seamus.”

Sledge stilled, stopping dead in his tracks for a brief moment before turning slightly to face the Brit and first crack a smile, then let out a small chortle. “I’m honestly fine, reall—“

“Sorry, not buying it.” The Brit shook his head and, gently, pushed the taller man back into his room without giving him a single chance for a retort. He shut the door behind him and crossed his arms once again; facial expression changing to a slightly sterner one.

“Now, what’s wrong?”

“It’s… it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I can deal with it.”

“Can you though? Tell me, _can_ you deal with it?,” he posed. His eyebrows furrowed together in disbelief. Sledge started to rattle his brain for an answer yet stopped when the older man spoke again:  “And just so you know, your eyes are red and you got tear stains on your face and hands. I may be old, but I’m neither stupid nor blind.”

With a heavy sigh, Sledge walked over to his bed and took a seat knowing that whichever excuses he was going to sprout, Thatcher wouldn’t fall for them. He motioned for the other to take a seat, which he did on the chair situated at his desk, pulling it over to the bed to face him. Rubbing one of his muscular arms anxiously, his face scrunching up as he pondered on where to even begin and how he should go about telling Thatcher. It was a heavy and extremely hard subject to breach. It would be the first time ever in a really long while that he was unscrewing the lid to the jar into which he’d pushed all the thoughts and feelings he had kept bottled up, and he was about to give them back the freedom he had once taken from them – and they were not going to be happy campers for sure. Even though he had attempted to wear his mask again, as per usual, Thatcher saw right through the veil and was having none of it. So this would be the first time in a long while he couldn’t rely on it. Meaning everything he was about to spew out would be raw, painful and mentally exhausting, and that it would be like a huge wave crashing down on him. Gazing up at the other man, grey eyes meeting light brown ones, Sledge took in a big and heavy breath before slowly exhaling.

“Umm… alright then, here goes nothing. I’ve been dealing with some, I guess, personal issues,” he began hesitantly, “it’s not something I can just tell anyone – or better yet, I’d rather not tell anyone at all. A lot of negative things have been running on my mind and it’s just been really bad tonight.” He clutched his fists together and dropped his attention from Thatcher to his hands, staring at them intensely as if they were the most interesting thing in the bloody room. He started to twiddle his thumbs as he continued. “These… thoughts and emotions I have… they’ve been weighing me down, tormenting me even, for a while now and I have no clue how to deal with them aside from bottling them up. And it’s not as if I can snap my fingers and make them disappear.”

“Seamus, you know you can come and talk to me right?”

“I know!,” he exclaimed abruptly but quickly drew a breath to calm himself. “I know… and yet I can’t. Like I’ve said, it’s not something I can just tell anyone,” Sledge replied, eyes narrowing imperceptibly. “I… I don’t want to burden anyone with my troubles. I don’t want to dampen anyone’s day with this…” He could feel his body heating up again and the buzzing coming back, he knew they were back and they were fucking _hungry_. This would end horribly and extremely ugly.

Thatcher sat there, unmoving and silent. He knew exactly what Sledge was going through, perhaps not fully and in a different way, for he had been there himself. It was truly a horrifyingly hideous place to be in, being a toy to his own thoughts and emotions, and nothing he could do to stop their little games. He knew the exact same thoughts and the same pain consuming him, the same buzzing and numbness taking over his own body. He didn't get the support or help he wished he had gotten, and the fact that he’d had to pick himself back up, put everything back together and continue to move forward all by himself had been what had made it particularly excruciating. The older SAS operator’s facial features softened – he could see tears pricking at Sledge’s eyes, ready to fall any second now. His brown eyes shifted to the other’s hands where they were clasped together in an iron grip – his skin dotted with some white here and there.

“Mike, do you ever feel like you just want to crawl into a ball and pray that everything will get better? Or to just disappear completely from existence without a single trace?,” Sledge began, voice wavering increasingly the more he spoke. Grey eyes blinked back the waterworks threatening to spill, making their presence known once more. He could feel the atmosphere getting heavier and heavier as time ticked by. Sniffling, he parted his lips to speak once more. “Do you ever feel that even though you belong somewhere, you also _don’t_ as well? Like you’re just lingering at the edges or standing on the opposite side of a fence to everyone?”

Sledge kept his gaze locked on the floor, brows knitted together while he bit into his bottom lip in an attempt to hold back the tears but failing. The little balls of water rolled over his lash line and down his cheeks, one after another they slid down. Sledge brought his hands up to his eyes to wipe them away yet they wouldn’t stop no matter how much he tried. His strong shoulders started to shake and his face scrunched up as he fought back the overwhelming flow of emotions, his hands tightening their grasp. Glancing up at Thatcher and setting his gaze on the older man, seeing the troubled expression plastered on his face, was all it took before the Scotsman completely broke into a full blown sob. Tears rapidly flooded out of his eyes, his body shaking viciously, face red from the friction he had done by roughly wiping the moisture away with his hands and every so often a sob or whimper would flee from his lips. He was a mess. A complete and utter mess, but he didn't care.

The sight before him pulled at Thatcher’s heartstrings and caused his chest to ache painfully. He could feel himself losing his own composure. He got up from his spot and moved to join Sledge on the bed, pulled the other into his arms, into a warm embrace the moment he sat down. Thatcher started to rub soothing circles on Sledge’s back, sometimes switching to gentle pats, in the hopes of calming him down.

In all honesty, this had taken the older man aback. He had never seen the Scotsman like this before. Yes, he had cried before – but nothing compared to _this_ and it truly broke his heart to see the man so crushed and in so much pain. He mentally cursed and kicked himself for not noticing any signs or cries of help. He should have been more observant, should have ensured that everyone was okay; he _should_ have done a better job. The three young SAS operators were like brothers to him, sometimes even like sons. Yes, occasionally they drove him absolutely insane but they would always have a good time together, cracking jokes, always having his back just as he would have theirs. And yet he’d failed to see all the clues that had probably been left out in the open by Sledge. Having gone through this before, he was definitely not allowing Sledge to take the same path he once had walked, the lonely road to recovery. He’d stand behind the lad and walk with him through the pain, support and encourage him, and pick him up when he falls – even go so far as to carry the Scot if necessary.

“I feel like I failed not only just myself but everyone around me. Like I’ve let them down,” the young SAS operator choked out. He inhaled shakily and Thatcher gently leaned over to grab the tissue box, pulling a piece and offering it to the lad. “And I want to fix that but every single time I try, I just make things worse and… I don’t know what to do anymore.” Sledge dabbed at the tears with the tissue, feeling it dampen as it soaked them up.

“You haven’t let anyone down, Seamus. You never have,” Thatcher replied tenderly, moving his hands from Sledge’s back to his arms. He began to rock back and forth, something he found to be comforting when he once saw Twitch consoling Rook after he’d tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs – okay, maybe it wasn’t a flight of stairs and more like a few steps at the front entrance of the dormitory. “You have no idea how much you’ve helped and affected everyone here, especially me. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be able to continue moving forward. You’ve helped me in more ways than you can believe and come up with.” The Brit ceased the rocking, gaze set on Sledge who had slowed his crying to small sniffles. “Hell, James should be thanking you! If it weren’t for you stepping in and saving his ass all the time, he would've been toast by now,” he added to which the other let out a soft snicker. Hearing him laugh, even if it was a little bit, was music to his ears and he was glad that he was able to achieve this small victory.

“Mike… I don’t know how much longer I can last before I lose it. It hurts… it hurts so much,” Sledge muttered softly, voice cracking slightly, “I just want peace.”

“You’ll get it, I promise you,” Thatcher murmured, tightening his hold on the other. They held this position for a few more minutes before the older operator loosened his grip and pulled his arms back though he kept his attention on Sledge who reached over to grab the tissue box from his bedside table.

“Just know that nothing will ever be the same if you are gone. Nothing is ever easy with life, and it will constantly knock you off your feet. But you gotta stay strong, as hard as it may be.” The brown eyed man informed once the Scot got comfortable again, box of tissue sitting beside him. He then continued, voice soft and gentle: “You stay strong and keep moving forward, and if you can’t get back on your feet then the rest of us will be right behind you to help. We’re always here to support you no matter what. It’s okay to cry or ask for help, we’ve all been there before and it’s human.”

Hearing the words leaving Thatcher’s mouth had him feeling lighter, happier and if he’d had any more tears left, he would have cried again right now. Perhaps because this was what he’d wanted to hear all this time, to have someone say exactly this to him and to reassure him that everything would be okay. Simply nodding his head, Sledge gathered all the tissues he had used and went to dispose of them in the rubbish bin under his desk. Returning, he took another piece and blew his nose, feeling it gradually being unclogged. “Thank you for lending an ear and a shoulder, Mike, I really appreciate it.” He smiled, a small smile, at Thatcher who humbly returned a wider one of his own.

“It’s no problem, lad, we’re family,” Thatcher responded, “you should rest, I’ll be right here if ya need me.”

“Oh no, I’ll be fine. Go back to your room, I don’t need a nanny,” the Scotsman piped up, eyebrows shooting up in astonishment. “I’m grateful for the offer but you’ll only keep me awake with your obnoxious snoring,” he joked to which the older operator placed a hand on his chest, feigning hurt.

“Your words wound me, but suck it up. I’m staying whether you like it or not and I don’t snore,” Thatcher expressed with a gasp. He did _not_ snore! He slept soundlessly like a sweet, innocent angel. “You’re mistaking me for James.”

“I know what James’ snore sounds like and that definitely wasn’t his. And Mark doesn’t snore,” Sledge stated with a chuckle. He felt so much lighter now after pouring everything out – all the troubling thoughts, feelings and emotions that all kept gnawing at him endlessly. The heavy boulder that once had weighed him down had finally been lifted off his shoulders and it felt great. He knew that it wouldn’t be long until they came back to have another go at him – however, he knew that it would be different this time. This time, Sledge would know he could go to Thatcher for help during these moments. It was going to be tough getting back on his feet but at least this time he wouldn’t be alone – not anymore. “Are you seriously going to stay the night?,” the Scotsman asked the other for confirmation.

“I am, so hurry up and go to bed. It's late and we got training tomorrow,” Thatcher answered as he got up from the bed and made his way over to the closet in which Sledge usually kept the extra blanket and pillows. He returned to the chair with said blanket in hand and sat down after throwing it around himself, settling in as comfortably as the piece of furniture allowed.

Meanwhile, Sledge had returned the tissue box back to where it belonged and crawled under the covers which quickly worked their magic and warmed him up almost instantly.

“Hey, Mike, again – thank you.” He laid facing Thatcher, a small smile sprouting onto his lips.

A grunt was his only response but Sledge knew that it was just Thatcher’s way of saying _‘you're welcome’_ without voicing it directly. He watched the other man shuffle about again in his seat to find a comfortable position to sleep in without giving him back pain in the morning: he decided on sliding lower on said chair and crossing his feet over one another, adjusting the blanket to cover him more as he nestled into the material. The sound of plastic rustling caught his attention and the Scotsman arched a brow as he parted his lips to ask the other man: “What do you have in your pocket?”

Without answering the posed query verbally, Thatcher dug a hand into his pants’ pocket and fished out a plastic bag. After having untied the knot, he pulled out a ziplock bag with a pair of socks inside, and upon closer inspection it turned out to be Smoke’s socks. Sledge only stared at the other quizzically, questioning as to _why_ Thatcher would even have such a thing in his pocket.

“You don't steal my favourite pillow, slobber all over it and get away scot-free,” the older man declared with a smirk curling onto his face and _oh my god_ , who’d ever have thought that the oldest Rainbow operator was capable of pranking others.

“Dom gave you the idea, didn’t he?”

“Maybe. But James had it coming from a bloody mile away.”

“So you're going to shove his own putrid socks up his nose?”

“You'll find out in the morning.”

“ _Oh my god_. Wake me up so I can record it.”

“Alright. Now sleep or I'll use them to knock you out,” Thatcher joked and received a hearty laugh from Sledge who only nuzzled into his pillow and pulled the blanket up, the warmth of the material hugging him and lulling him to sleep. Thatcher watched as the Scotsman's breathing gradually evened out, his chest rising and falling, and he couldn't help but to beam at how peaceful Sledge looked. He still regretted and cursed himself for not noticing the pain and anguish Sledge was going through any earlier, but he was glad about being able to lend a shoulder for him to cry on and be of some help – even if it was just a little. “You did well, lad. I'm proud of you. So stay strong for me and don't give up.”

“Okay…”

 

** EXTRA **

The peacefulness of the morning was broken by a loud bellow coming from Smoke's room followed by a heavy thud as said man hit the floor, followed by laughter over Smoke’s ungraceful fall.

“What the fuck? Why would you… oh god, that's disgusting! Who fucking _does_ that?,” Smoke exclaimed exasperatedly, obviously pissed about being woken up by the stench of his own sock. He quickly flung said article of clothing off his face in absolute disgust and horror. He glared daggers at the two intruders in his room who rudely woke him up by assaulting his nose with his _own_ bloody socks. Who the fuck would do that? Okay, maybe he would. However, it was still horrible and revolting!

“That's what you fucking get for stealing my pillow,” Thatcher said whilst still holding the bag in his hand, a smirk plastered on his face. Sledge on the other hand was losing his shit, one hand clutching at his stomach while the other was holding his phone up at Smoke, tears pricking at his eyes, cheeks tinted pink and his mouth curled upwards from glee.

“Are you for real? _That’s_ what this is about? You gotta to be joking.”

“I told you not to take the pillow. Should have listened,” Mute voiced rather smugly from across the room. Smoke flipped him off with a growl.

“I hate all of you assholes.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Sledge shot back after he’d regained his composure. He turned his gaze over to the eldest operator in the room who was smiling fondly at the three of them, like a proud father would at his children. He mouthed a _‘thank you’_ and got a wink in return. For once, ever since he started feeling shitty and like absolute garbage, he could truly feel things starting to brighten up and that today would be a good day. He now knew he was not alone and that his comrades had his back, ready to pick him up if he couldn’t do so himself and that they were the light which would slice through the darkness.


End file.
